


Elysium

by Not_So_Secretly_a_Spaceship



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angels, Bodhi's POV, Fix-It, Gen, Mind Break, PTSD, bodhi is a cinnamon roll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:07:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_So_Secretly_a_Spaceship/pseuds/Not_So_Secretly_a_Spaceship
Summary: It's only when a pungent sack is thrown over his head and his world is reduced to the sound of his breathing, the stench, and a few bright glimpses of sun through torn hessian that Bodhi is certain he kriffed up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm agnostic. I know sweet fuck all about religion of any sort. This is just me having fun with angles. Angels. That one. (No maths is involved in this fic. I hope.)
> 
> This will be updated on a slow and lazy schedule of 'sometime in the future', but it's not intended to be long at all, and I've already got most of the ending finished up :D just got to read the Rogue One novel for the middle bit.

It's only when a pungent sack is thrown over his head and his world is reduced to the sound of his breathing, the stench, and a few bright glimpses of sun through torn hessian that Bodhi is certain he kriffed up. It was a creeping feeling as they left Jedha city. It slithered up his legs as his feet blistered in poorly fitting boots and sand invaded the sores. It clamped around his stomach as he realised _this_ was not Saw Gerrera.

Now it sits in the back of his throat, a lump of fear and a surety that this is _really_ not where he should be, not what he should be doing.

He was so sure, when Galen Erso began to speak, that this was his path, this was something he _must do_ , but his senses must have become muddled. He has been here too long, and this mortal coil has seduced stronger than he. Mortals shine so brightly for their brief span of existence, but Galen Erso? He is a _supernova_.

But now, now he is sure this is not his path. He can do naught but see his task through. He is bound, utterly, by his deed and his word and there is nothing in this galaxy that can break it.

He runs at the mouth. He babbles. He always has, especially when he's anxious, and he's _very_ anxious now (he usually is, actually, always has been if he really thinks about it). His siblings used to fill his mouth with balls of cotton when he was younger. They still call him 'cotton mouth' when they catch up, which is almost never. Much to his relief.

His lips stop moving after a few hours. He struggles with tears as sand digs into tender flesh between his toes. They keep walking. His tongue swells in his mouth. They keep walking. His legs begin to shake, his spine aches, his knees refuse to bend. They keep walking.

He is thrown to the ground. His body protests. His mouth moves. It doesn't _stop_ until the sack is scraped off his face and his eyes bug because _that is not human_. It is twisted and mangled beyond all that is alive. It pulses with sickness and madness. He gulps.

“Saw,” he whimpers. Desperate supplication pours from his lips. He fades into silence.

He really knows he kriffed up when the _thing_ (he refuses to call it a man, it is not, it is diseased and sickened and twisted and _wrong_ to every sense he has) says “bor gullet”. And still, despite the delivery, despite _passing the message on_ , he is bound to this task. He cannot escape as he is strapped to a chair. He cannot flee as the _creature_ moves towards him, the sheer _wrongness_ of its existence forcing bile up from his stomach.

He can only scream as his grace his torn apart.

 


End file.
